Ambrose: The Mechanic
by Hunter the Writer
Summary: When you work in a bar you are bound to meet odd characters. Roman Torchwick, Yang Xiao Long, the list goes on. Its not that I'm afraid of this world but if you poke a bear with a stick too many times then... I'll be apart of this game and I play to win.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: RWBY was created by Monty Oum (RIP) and is owned by Rooster Teeth.

Punch to the my face.

Then the ribs.

And then everywhere else; I couldn't see much since my eyes were swollen.

It didn't bother me that much… Hell I could hardly feel a thing.

Two of Junior's boys had a firm hold on my arms as I just sat there, lazily on the wooden chair in a bloody heap despite my pain tolerance. A white shirt flecked with my blood and disheveled with dirt and grime.

Junior does this sort of thing so none of us fuck up any of his business. I'm no exception.

None of us were, well maybe not Melanie or Militia. He's got a soft spot for them.

My name is Floyd Ambrose, the right hand to The Black Bear.

I make sure to keep the customers safe and the drunk rowdy ones out on their keisters. But it seems that Junior's being frequented by this guy called Roman Torchwick, Vale's Most Wanted criminal. Has a taste for theatrics and cheap cigars. He comes in one night and talks to Junior for a bit, I;m on the floor with the boys as usual….

Then comes along Blondie.

Fuck my life.

 **Hello Everyone! I apologize if the story is extremely short right now. Its my first RWBY story and I hope that you will all enjoy it. PM me if you have anything to add. Thank you for taking the time to read!**

 **\- Hunterous**


	2. Just Another Night

**Disclaimer: RWBY was created by Monty Oum (RIP) and is owned by Rooster Teeth.**

Mechanic.

Definition; a person who fixes equipment or machinery.

Actual Definition; A person who has the character to deal with dead weight.

Blondie walks in, good looking and she knows it. Music is blaring in the background as the revelers dance the night away while the patrons drink away their sorrows only to forget it the next morning.

I kept my stance near the bar, not too close to draw attention but enough to fixate myself on Goldilocks strutting over to Junior. Taking a longing scrutinizing glance at her, lilac eyes turned a bit more serious. Junior, I could tell was being brutish as always gets his grapefruits grabbed by Goldilocks. I wanted to step it but… he kinda deserved it, hell it was pretty damn entertaining watching him get all squeamish by a girl much shorter than him.

I stood out most of the time due to my less than appealing choice of clothing, basically I look like I'm half detective and a little bit of hobo. The tattered brown trench coat and my scruffy looks are a dead giveaway. My hair was messy and unkempt, short enough to trim the bangs off myself. A very dull color of dirty blond going on brown.

Anyway I'm leaning against the bar with my right hand in my pocket. The Malachite twins, Melanie and Militia were also in the proceedings approaching the buxom blond.

I scratched my chin and watched the whole debacle as Goldilocks used her 'assets' to woo Junior.

Surprise, surprise he took the bait… perv.

Then outcome the punch that knocks Junior, a near seven footer half across where he was back first into the bar causing some of it to crack from the impact.

"Err… leave I don't want to get physical with you girlie." Junior subtly threatened.

A bunch of Junior's henchman crowded Blondie as she confidently smiled and activated some type of bracelets which transformed into gauntlets.

As I was about to enter the fray my scroll had rang. I rifled it from my coat pocket. I pulled up the message that said:

 **10:00 PM SHARP, I'll BE WAITING.**

Fuck my life, again.

I put on my aviators and left before the 'party' in the club escalated further. Bar life can be a bitch I tell you what. Taking care of the scum of Vale is something I call my pastime, as long as the lien is on the table and I don't get double crossed I'm fine as wine.

Tonight is going to be very… very interesting.

A mechanic makes sure to fix people's problems and Floyd Ambrose fixes no matter what.


	3. Targets, Money, and Neo

**Disclaimer: RWBY was created by Monty Oum (RIP) and is owned by Rooster Teeth.**

I walk my way to the destination the client specified on the scroll, as I keep walking I bring it out from my jacket pocket one last time just to be double sure that it's legit. You can never be too careful with people these days.

 **Old Vale Fishery Plantation. Be prompt in your arrival as we do not have time to waste.**

I sigh momentarily and put the scroll away. Who the hell was "we" the message said?

 _ **Drip… Drip… Drip**_

"Lovely." My coarse voice sarcastically skims on the rain. I pull my collar up and walk in a brisk pace to get to the meeting spot. I passed by a few civvies, nothing special as the rain started to pour like crazy down on me.

Fifteen minutes later its now getting close to ten o'clock. I'm walking up to the empty docks, filled with nothing but empty huge warehouses with lights shining dimly. I rap my knuckles on the metal door.

No one answered. This time I made my way inside the warehouse, it smelled like dried fish and musky wood leftover for two years. I look around the place and find no one inside except me.

I keep my hand on my customized extendable shotgun I call Ulysses. Me and him have been through thick and thin and has never let me down. Two my left is my serrated combat knife when things get up close and personal.

I explore the warehouse for a good five minutes before finding a slip of paper slid between a door frame in the back office. Grabbing the paper I read over the fine print.

"Hmm.. five targets, money wired to my account already. My kind of people." My mouth curls in for a slight mirthful smile as I skim over the list in bold black lettering. One of them caught my eye as they were at the top of the list.

Schnee… Weiss Schnee to be exact. Heiress to the Schnee Dust Company and an Atlas native. I've heard some pretty nasty rumors about faunus slave labor but nothing concrete. Her daddy from what I hear is a real ratfuck bastard. But why her though?

I crack my neck and check my scroll as the client proved to be honest, my money came through clean as a whistle. I chuckle a bit and exit the warehouse, stopping for a moment as I catch a small figure on one of the rooftops. My body chills as I meet her h _eterochromatic_ gaze.

Neopolitian...


End file.
